by George Moore
Only two trees had crashed, and some branches, and among these Cherriez was busy with adze and saw. At that moment a great gust fell upon the nuns, whirling their habits round their legs, and carrying the feathery seeds of the traveller’s joy from the wall up into the air like pale smoke. The gust gone by is naught to them that be coming, said Cherriez, and when they have blown themselves out it will be the while of the frost. We shall be walking on the river before Christmas. No, ladies, it isn’t the black side that I see, but the white, the old man cried after the affrighted nuns. If Cherriez speaks the truth let us pray that God may send us another storm, said Angela. And next year, when there are no more trees? asked Tetta. None answered her, for it was in everybody’s mind that next year must look after itself; and with the news that two trees were down and many great branches, the nuns returned to the convent in the hope that Mother Ysabeau, in view of the wood the storm had provided, would allow them a fire in the community-room. But we are still in November, she answered, and our provision of firewood is scantier this year than last. No fire till December! cried Sister Angela. Nowhere but in the kitchen and in the Prioress’s room, Mother Ysabeau replied, and all checked the words on the ends of their tongues: the Prioress conceals a box of live charcoal in her muff.
I’d like to hear what you thought of the cold in Brittany; it’s twice as cold by the sea as it is here! cried Astrolabe. But you nuns roll yourself up in your warm habits like hedgehogs under leaves in a ditch; no wonder you feel cold when you come out. But I am never cold. I could run down to the river naked and come back leaping and bounding about you. Astrolabe, I forbid thee to undress thyself, and a little more strictness in thy speech would become thee. But, mother, all the sisters wear heavier stuffs than I. Thy clothes, mother, are thicker, warmer than mine: feel. Hush, hush, Héloïse replied, for thy bad French wounds our ears. But, mother, three months ago I had but Breton and thou couldst not understand me, and now we are talking together easily — Hush, hush, said Héloïse, and all the nuns laughed and were pleased to see Héloïse’s pretty, small-featured son, eager and blithe as a blackbird, lean across the table, minded to question his mother or anybody who would listen to him, his eagerness, however, checked by a slight stutter. They vied with each other as to who should spoil him the most, and every nun, old and young, liked to kiss his sunny face. But he liked kisses so little that, after his promise to kiss Sister Angela if she ran a race with him round the cloister, he only offered her his cheek, and when she kissed him according to her taste, he cried: Sister Angela, I do not like wet kisses, nor kisses at all, but the wet ones least. Astrolabe, thou’rt rude, uncouth, Héloïse said, for all the nuns have been kind to thee, Sister Angela more than any other. Yes, mother, but my promise was not for a wet kiss — We have heard enough, his mother answered, and the thought came to her that Astrolabe must beg Sister Angela’s pardon; but on second thoughts it seemed to her that if she said nothing the child’s aversion for Angela’s kisses would be forgotten more easily.
It was some six weeks after this quarrel with Sister Angela, at the end of a snowy afternoon, that Astrolabe began to beg the nuns to chase him round the convent, saying that if they caught him they might eat him as hounds eat a fox. But you won’t eat me, for I am as cunning as the fox and will lead you a scamper till you’re worn out. Astrolabe, Astrolabe, Héloïse cried, and then, turning to the trembling sisters, she said: if there was a fire on the hearth I would read you the story that I wrote for my son to learn French out of. Oh, mother, let us have a fire. It isn’t for thee to ask for a fire, Astrolabe, for thou’rt never cold. He says he is never cold, but I know better than that, said Madelon, and she began to relate her journey from Brittany, but was cut short by Sister Angela. We’ll hear that journey another time; we are now thinking of a fire, or praying to Mother Ysabeau for one. Wood is very scarce, said Mother Ysabeau. But we are now in January, cried many voices; snow is falling and we are so cold that we couldn’t listen to the story that Sister Héloïse has written without some logs. Well, well, said Mother Ysabeau, and without waiting for more the nuns, with Astrolabe at their head, ran for light wood; and before the logs were burnt through many were asking Héloïse to read, but she said: as soon as the fire has begun to warm the room; it is still as cold as before, and you’d be thinking of your toes all the time.
More and more logs were required, and when Héloïse had finished reading the story out of which every morning Astrolabe learnt his lesson, Mother Hilda said: speak to us, Astrolabe, of thy mother’s story, so that we may see if it be plain to thee. It is all plain enough, he answered, but it isn’t the story they tell in Brittany, not altogether; some things are the same, but not all. And which story dost thou like the better, thy mother’s or Madelon’s? Mother Hilda asked him.
But he kept silence, and something like a scowl came into his face, and remained in it till his mother began to chide him for not answering Mother Hilda. Which story is to thy liking, darling? There are things that are good in each story, so I’d have mother put the two together. And when Mother Hilda asked him what there was in his mother’s story that he’d have put into Madelon’s, he answered: a blasted tree, without leaves, and all the branches gone but one, a perch for the ravens who come to talk to each other. That’s how it is in Madelon’s story, and Peronnik, having a raven at home, thought the ravens in the blasted oak must be tame ravens. So what do you think he did? He climbed up within earshot of the birds, and what they were saying was: look here, look there, look up, look down, look everywhere. They are talking to me, said Peronnik, and he looked into the tree, which was hollow, only a shell, and not one of you would ever guess what he saw in that hollow tree.
Astrolabe would not continue his story till all the nuns had tried to guess what he saw, some saying gold, some saying great treasure, some bethought themselves of the golden bowl and the diamond spear. But Astrolabe shook his head at all the answers. At last a sister said: a sword, to which Astrolabe answered: yes, he found a sword in the tree, but something else; guess again. But the nuns could think of naught likely, and to soothe the child they said books and candlesticks and crowns and sceptres; all bad guesses, he said, and when certain that his knowledge was greater than that of all present, he said: Peronnik saw a knight’s helmet, and where there is a helmet, he said, there may be a head and maybe a body beneath the head; so I must be about my business, for there is a secret door in that tree and the knight will come out of it and have my life. And so afraid was he of the knight that he didn’t return to the tree for long whiles, thinking all the time of what he had seen, for he couldn’t, though he tried ever so hard, take his mind off the knight. At last he had to have another peep. The knight was still there, and he was about to make off when the ravens came, crying: look here, look there, look everywhere. He was too frightened, for ravens are evil birds. But if the knight be dead, he said to himself, what have I to fear? And one day he came with an adze and cut away the bark, and what do you think was there? A whole suit of armour with nothing but bones in it.
O, what a dreadful tale thou’rt telling us, cried the nuns. We shall not sleep to-night, said Sister Tetta. But the others wished to hear what Peronnik had done with the suit of armour. Why, of course, you sillies, what else could he do with it but put it on? The armour was all silver, for it was in this silver armour, said the prophecy, that the wizard — In mother’s story it is a wizardess, who had many knights imprisoned in her castle; every one of these had gone forward to destroy her, but she beguiled them to ride round the castle ramparts, promising to wed him who could do it. Did Peronnik do this? Héloïse asked. He did, the child answered. And what befell him afterwards? Mother Hilda asked. When he returned to the hall, leading his horse by the bridle, why, the wizardess knew that her power was broken. Am I telling the story right, mother? Quite right.
But you forgot to tell — I know, mother, I forgot to tell that while Peronnik was jumping from battlement to battlement the wizardess was looking into the burnished sil
ver shield that her pander, a crippled knight, upheld for her to see the parapet chase. He took jump after jump, and when he rode his horse down a great flight of steps and came to her, she gave one great shriek and vanished into smoke, leaving her keys behind her for Peronnik to unlock the dungeon in which she had shut her prisoners; which done, all the prisoners came out and sang a hymn together, and with Peronnik at their head they marched away to win the Holy Sepulchre from the Saracen. Bravo, little man, said Mother Hilda, thou hast told the story as well as thy mother did. But might not the two stories be put into one? Astrolabe asked. I like Madelon’s story, for in it are the blasted tree, the ravens, and the suit of armour, and a wizard; I do not care for Mother’s wizardess, for I don’t think a woman would have a castle and keep prisoners in vaults. The knights wouldn’t listen to her; knights are not such fools. In Madelon’s story the wizardess is a wizard, a man with a fierce black beard, by name Rogéar. And a man with a beard is more to thy taste, said Mother Hilda, than a wizardess? A man should have a beard always, for without one he would be the same as a woman, wouldn’t he? Before Mother Hilda could answer, the door was opened and the portress ran through it crying: there’s an old man begging at our gate for shelter, Mother Prioress. He is numb with the cold and weary almost to death in his limbs, for the wolves are after him; such is his story and ’tis easy to believe him, for I have heard the devils howling down by Cherriez’s hovel. What say you, Sisters? Many voices spoke of the Prioress. But, said the lay sister, the wolves are after him, and in a few minutes will take him by our gate if it be not opened to him. Then open to him and we’ll seek the Prioress, cried the many voices, and the talk fell on the age of the man and the peril he stood in by their gate and how he could be saved by their mercy. May I go to see the wolves through the grating, mother? If it pleases thee, Héloïse replied. But sister Agatha, away with thee, for while we talk the wolves may be quarrelling over bones. Away they all went at a scamper, and a few minutes afterwards an old stooped and grizzled man, with a musical instrument tied on his back, tottered into the room, the nuns making room for him by the fire. Thou’rt so cold, gleeman, that thou canst barely move thy fingers, said the Prioress, and the old man lifted his eyes to her and mumbled: yes, indeed, so frozen that I can hardly move my fingers. But you shall have some music when my fingers are loosened.
Some more logs were thrown on to the hearth and a great blaze was soon flaring, for which the gleeman thanked the sisters, saying: it will be some time yet —— But we’re not thinking of thy music, good man; warm thyself, Héloïse answered, and the sisters drew together, for the smell of the thawing man was not sweet, saying: we cannot turn him out to the wolves when he is warm; he must sleep somewhere. He must indeed, but not by the fire in the community room, said one. He will be cold in the woodshed, said another. Not so cold, Mother Hilda interrupted, if we can give him some rugs, and meanwhile some warm milk will help him to recover himself. You’re in luck, ladies, to have cows giving milk, and I hope that the door of the byre is a stout one, for the wolves are in plenty in these parts and will be scratching and gnawing at the planks every night; and should they find a loose one they will have it out, and if there isn’t a loose one they will be striving to dig a hole under the planks. But the ground is too hard for digging, so there’s no fear that way. But see to your planks every morning, or when you come with your pails only some scattered hoofs and horns you’ll find. Drink, gleeman, said Héloïse, handing him the cup. And may a high place in heaven reward you, lady, the vagrant answered, as he handed back the empty cup to her and stretched his legs anew to the fire.
The icicles with which he was covered began to drip; they were in his hair and beard, in the tattered hose that covered his legs, and the eyes of the nuns followed the rents and the patches in the old green cloak, green-worn with age and weather that he wore from his chin to his knees, his only garment, maybe, else he would have thrown it away so that he might run faster across the fields from the wolves. And as if guessing the thoughts that the nuns were thinking, he said: if it hadn’t been for Cherriez’s ass, that had wandered from his stable, foolish fellow, I should be picked clean by now. Thou hast in mind a clean-picked ass, said Sister Angela. That was in my mind, indeed, the vagrant answered, for the wolves were at my heels when the ass crossed my slot; but one ass among twenty hungry wolves would be but a mouthful apiece. The tearing and the quarrelling over him gave me time to run across the fields, and lest, ladies, you think that I am lying to you, come with me and you’ll find that my scent has brought the wolves to your gate, still licking their lips in memory of the ass. May I not put my eyes to the grating to see the wolves licking their chops, mother? cried Astrolabe. But what wouldst thou see in a wolf, my son? Héloïse asked. Why, a wolf, mother, what else? Whereat the nuns laughed, and the Prioress said: let him not be disappointed. Since then, Astrolabe, the Prioress wishes thee to see a wolf, go fetch thy cloak and wrap thyself in it well, and I will take thee to the gate and lift thee up to the grating to see whatever there may be to be seen of the wolves.
And many of the nuns being as curious as the boy to see the pests, the Prioress cried after them: let the grating suffice; do not open the door to peep if the wolves that are in front of the grating be round the corner, for such would be playing with the danger which our visitor here will tell is a danger indeed to all who have not a high wall between them and the fields this night. Shall we see the wolves, mother, licking their chops? Before Héloïse could answer, a sniffing under the door told them that the wolves had not lost the scent of the gleeman, though a power of snow had fallen since the ass was eaten. Lift me up, mother. Yes, there they are; one, two, three, four, five, and two sniffing under the door; great hairy things with dashing tails and jaws filled with great white teeth. Could we not throw something at them, mother? Could we not do them some harm for having eaten Cherriez’s ass? cried Astrolabe. But they were hungry, Héloïse said. But should one animal eat another animal if it be hungry? The laws of wolves and the laws of men are not the same, my dear child, Sister Angela remarked sententiously. But aren’t they? cried Astrolabe. Should we not eat all we could get to eat if we were starving? No, I do not think we should, Héloïse answered, and as Astrolabe still seemed doubtful, she said: you would not eat the old man who is warming himself by the fire inside? But the wolves would. Are you sure, mother? queried Astrolabe. Well, the old man thinks they would, and he doesn’t feel called to put the wolves’ appetite to the test. So come, let us go back to our fire, for it is cold here.
Our gleeman’s fingers are thawed, said Astrolabe, for he is playing his instrument, whatever it may be, for the entertainment of Mother Prioress. Let us hurry to see him, and suiting the action to the word, Sister Angela and Astrolabe ran a race up the corridor. Well, did you see many wolves? the Prioress asked. Yes, there were seven, Mother Prioress, cried Astrolabe, waiting to chew the old man up. Be not so precise, Astrolabe, Héloïse said, waiting for the man here is enough. Mother Prioress, I wanted to drop a blazing torch or pour some boiling water on them for having eaten the ass that Cherriez said I should ride. You’ll never ride that ass, gentle sir. He was gobbled long ago, and if I had not had legs enough to run across the field in front of them and to make one of you ladies hear my knocks when I did, you’d have found my bones on the threshold, with my organistrum beside me, a gift to me from the beautiful Comtesse D’Urgel. Denis raised his eyes, and looking through the half-closed lids he forebore, not certain yet if the story which was part of his wont to tell, for it raised himself in the consideration of donors, would be well received in the company in which he found himself. But as the hour wore by he was encouraged to speak of the giver of his organistrum, and he told that his mother was a bakeress at the Comtesse D’Urgel’s castle, and that when she drew the bread from the oven she threw the loaves into a basket, which it was his business to carry round the castle, distributing them as he went. Going up one stair and down another, the old man said, I sang my songs; and on coming n
ear to the Comtesse’s apartments I always remembered to sing my best songs, so it came to pass that she delayed me on my rounds, asking me to sing my songs over and over again to her; and there being many instruments of music in her rooms, she would give me them one after the other. My mother was but a bakeress, but the Comtesse said that my mother mattered naught to her so beautifully did I follow her voice on the lute. Again Denis raised his lids a little, and judging the company to be favourable to his story, he continued to tempt them with it, saying: good ladies here, I durst not tell how I came to hope that a great lady like the Comtesse D’Urgel could love a bakeress’s son, though he sang as the angels sing in heaven. My love for the Comtesse was far from mortal sin, far from that which is venial, yet not to divine love would I compare it, though all love that is not sinful is akin to divine love.... Who shall say? Not the same, of course, ladies, only a shadow of the love we hope to come into hereafter. Now lest I am not plain to you all I will go further and tell that though my mother baked the castle’s bread and I was but the carrier thereof up and down turret stairs, the thought laid hold of me that I might send my songs to the Lady D’Urgel, which I did, till she said to me one day: some great trouvère loves me from afar, for songs in praise of my beauty reach me. And why, Lady D’Urgel, must it be some great trouvère? Who else would dare, and who else could fashion such melody? As she was about to sing to me my heart took fright, and I could not do else than to beg the Lady D’Urgel’s permission to finish my round, for with so many waiting for the daily bread, I said, I shall not be able to give my thought to the song. Deliver thy bread, boy, she said, and return to me with thine empty basket. At which my heart was so uplifted that I began to sing one of the songs I had sent the Comtesse, as I crossed the courtyard, stopping singing suddenly with a great fear in my heart lest I had betrayed myself. But the mischief was done; the Comtesse’s window was open: she had heard me.
